


When

by ittakesabitmore (grumpybell)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Immortality, Pining, Red String, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpybell/pseuds/ittakesabitmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lydia Martin won't give him her attention frequently over the next eight years. He'll only get her in doses, in passing, in his determination to notice her, even as she fails to notice him. He won't get anything but fragments of her, so small she doesn't even miss them, until he's all but given up hope that he will ever get anything from her at all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When

  
“ _ **Is that the kind of way to face the burning heat?”**_

He doesn't even realize he hasn't experienced a full spectrum of color until she steps into his life. Stiles has never paid much attention to girls. They're all frilly and strange and boring. Stiles is full of energy, full of the need to _do_ something, and girls are never more than a passing thought when there are much more interesting things, like toy guns and baseball and pretty much anything else, to be dealt with.

But the first day of third grade, sitting in the back of his mom's Toyota, his eyes catch on a flash of brilliant color and the days of not noticing girls ends abruptly. Her hair is a whole new world of colors, full of golds and reds and sunset oranges that he gets lost inside of. Sometimes it's true what they say, that ignorance is bliss, because the rest of the world will always be dulled compared to her. He just doesn't know it yet.

He'll get another shock the first time she meets his eyes. He won't know, then, to cherish it, because Lydia Martin won't give him her attention frequently over the next eight years. He'll only get her in doses, in passing, in his determination to notice her, even as she fails to notice him. He won't get anything but fragments of her, so small she doesn't even miss them, until he's all but given up hope that he will ever get anything from her at all.

 

“ _ **I just think about my baby.”**_

She never cries. This is something that he has learned over the years. She never, ever cries. But she's crying now, right there, in the middle of the hallway, tears sliding down her face, and no one but him has even noticed it. He should _do_ something, _say_ something, anything, but he's thirteen, and all the words get stuck in his throat.

She doesn't see him watch her cry. She brushes the tears away fiercely, lips pressed into a determined frown, and raises her chin proudly, even as more tears gather in the corners of her eyes. There's something magnificent about her, like she's daring the world to try to take her control. He would never bet against her.

By the time the bell rings, she's completely composed. If he hadn't seen the tears with his own eyes, he'd never have believed she'd been crying. And no one else ever will. Not that he'd tell anyone. Still, he wonders what, out of all the things on this earth, has managed to make Lydia Martin cry. And he watches, in case the incident ever repeats itself, but there are no more tears from her until almost three years later.

 

“ _ **I'm so full of love I could barely eat.”**_

There are a lot of things about the world he doesn't understand. But number one on his list at the moment is why Scott doesn't seem to need his inhaler anymore. Stiles isn't crazy. He's never been the sort of person to keep up with horoscopes. He's never had his fortune told. He's played with ouija boards and laughed at ghost stories. He's also pretty sure his best friend is turning into a werewolf.

He comes up with a lot of crazy theories that year. He does a lot of useless research (and occasional helpful research) and he spends a lot less time doing homework or sleeping. He has a lot of plans and ideas and projections for the future. What he does _not_ see coming, is how Scott turning into a werewolf catapults Lydia Martin into the same world as him.

He knows there's more to it than what happened to Scott. It's got a lot to do with Allison, who is _way_ too hot for his best friend, but somehow as interested in him as he is in her. It has a lot to do with the fact that Allison doesn't particularly like Lydia's boyfriend (does anyone?). So he can't blame himself for not seeing it coming. But one day he's being ignored by Lydia in the hall and the next they're rotating on the dance floor at winter formal. Or, that's how it seems.

Of course, life can't be kind and let him have the night, so now he's sitting outside her hospital room, heart in his throat. If Lydia even knew he was here, she probably wouldn't particularly care. She'd want Jackson here, but he'd fucked off a long time ago, apparently, the bastard. And Stiles knows now, that a world without Lydia Martin, especially now that he knows what it looks like when she smiles at _him_ and how it feels to have her lean into his arms, will always be a dull one. So he could never leave.

What he doesn't know, with this attack by Peter, is what this means for Lydia. And he needs to know. He needs to be there. But how do you tell a popular girl who barely talks to you that werewolves are real and that she's either turning into one or dying? He's pretty sure he _can't_.

For once, luck is on his side, even if it doesn't make sense. Because _nothing_ happens to Lydia. She's just fine. She is fine, isn't she? Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. If there was a single person on earth, just one, who was above being touched by all this, it would be Lydia Martin. He's seen her as untouchable for a long time. But it doesn't make any sense.

 

“ _ **There's nothing sweeter than my baby.”**_

If Jackson Whittemore never comes back to Beacon Hills, it'll be too soon. Stiles understands, on some level, that all this isn't Jackson's fault. He hadn't had control over the kanima. But that didn't mean he hadn't left a trail of bodies behind him. And he can't stop thinking about how _who_ Jackson was is what allowed the kanima to exist in the first place. But Lydia loves him.

Stiles can't, will never, understand how Lydia could love someone like Jackson. Because Jackson will never, ever be good for her. Jackson will never love her properly. He only ever hurt her, as far as Stiles can tell, and how can she love that?

But the truth is, even though Lydia has become increasingly present in his life, they don't know each other. He might jump through any hoop, give up anything, to help her understand what's happening to her (because something _is_ happening to her. She'd accidentally resurrected Peter-Fucking- _Hale_ and he didn't even know how that was possible), but they don't really know much about each other.

They're tentative friends, now. He's been there to keep her sane and he likes to think he's helping. And she doesn't ignore him anymore. She's got an insane amount of pride and there's nothing soft about her, but he'd seen her face that night at the lacrosse game and she _cares_. He's sure of this. But in many ways, they're still strangers, and with the amount of crazy that seems to pop up in their lives, he wonders if they'll ever have any time to develop into something else.

But, even so, he'd meant what he'd said. If she dies, he'll go out of his mind.

 

“ _ **She gives me toothaches just from kissing me.”**_

If you'd asked him anytime before now, he'd tell you it'd be more likely that a kiss from Lydia Martin would _start_ a panic attack, rather than stop one. But as her lips pull slowly away from his, he's _breathing_ , and blinking his eyes slowly open. His head feels fuzzy. Lydia looks kind of like how he would imagine he does. But that can't be right, because there's no way it was like _that_ for her.

Still, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed when she explained herself. He had known, maybe not while they were kissing, but as soon as their lips separated, that she hadn't been kissing him for the pleasure of it. But it didn't stop him from wishing it. He's not sure whether he's relieved or chagrined that they don't have time to dwell on it. His dad is missing, along with Scott's mom and Allison's dad and they're running out of time to find them and stop Jennifer.

Even with all the insanity, he can't help but notice that Lydia is quiet and there's a softness around her edges that isn't usually there, but he's probably reading too much into things. There are a lot of reasons for Lydia to be quiet and distracted. She's just found out that she's a banshee, for fuck's sake. All of her friend's parents are in mortal danger, and she was almost strangled to death just last night. His eyes drift to the purple blue circle around her neck. When he'd seen it this morning, clear as day on her pale skin, he'd known that the Lydia Martin he knows now has grown _so_ much from the girl he'd been infatuated with as a child.

He drives them to Deaton's, nervous energy singing in his veins, mind flashing between panic for his father and the soft press of Lydia's lips on his. He shouldn't be thinking about kissing Lydia Martin at a time like this, but he can't stop. He's known, from the moment he'd caught sight of Lydia's brilliant hair and the rest of the world had dulled around her, that she would always be special to him. He knows, from the way his heart felt like it was going to explode when he'd seen her through the classroom window with Jennifer's wire around her neck and he'd been unable to do _anything_ to save her, that her death might be his biggest fear. And he knows, from the way the world had narrowed to just her as their lips moved against each other, that she anchors him.

But even he isn't expecting it when Deaton says, “Lydia, you go with Stiles.” The air is suddenly heavy with all the implications of Deaton's words. _A kind of emotional tether... someone with a strong connection to you_. He has no doubts that Lydia is this for him, but is this a two way street? It's not a two way street, is it? Not to mention, placing Lydia with him puts Isaac with Allison and judging by Scott's face, he's not thrilled with this. But Scott, being Scott, brushes it off and no one mentions how awkward it is again.

The tether doesn't come up again at all until almost a month after Jennifer is gone and Stiles wakes up sweating, panic clawing at his chest. A moment later, his phone rings, and when he answers, Lydia's crying on the other end. It takes him five minutes to calm her down enough to be able to decipher that she's at the edge of the preserve, sleepwalking again.

He picks her up. She's shivering in her thin nightgown, and he drives her home and they end up sitting in her living room under heavy blankets and drinking tea until the early hours of the morning, when they agree to skip school. Lydia's eyelids are heavy, her lashes brushing against her cheeks for longer and longer periods of time. He doesn't know if he should bring it up, this thought dancing around the edges of his brain, but he knows it's not going to stop bothering him. He's made a fool of himself a thousand times, why not do it again?

“Lyds?”

“Mmmm?”

“Do you think that the whole... emotional tether thing has effects past what happened that night?”

She suddenly looks more awake. “Why?”

“I woke up before you called... and I was scared.”

Lydia bites her lip, looking thoughtful. “We could ask Deaton.” The fact that she doesn't blow it off outright makes him feel a little better.

“Allison hasn't mentioned anything,” Lydia muses, “but I don't believe in coincidences anymore.”

Deaton doesn't seem surprised to see them, but then, nothing seems to surprise Deaton. Stiles blabbers for a full five minutes before Deaton holds up a hand to stop him.

“Emotional tethers aren't a science. They will vary from pair to pair, but yes, you can experience effects from it _long_ after it's created. It's a bond, not a momentary connection. While I can't tell you with any certainty, but if my suspicions are correct, I would imagine your tether will strengthen over time.”

“What suspicions?” Lydia asks.

“Let me ask you something,” Deaton says slowly. “If your tether were a string tied between you, what color would it be?”

“Red,” they both say, almost in sync. Stiles doesn't know why he said it, or Lydia for that matter, but now he has, all he can think about is the red string all over his bedroom. Red for unsolved. It fits them, whatever they are, unsolved, unsolved, unsolved.

“I thought so,” Deaton says quietly. “Red is a powerful color.”

By the time they leave, Stiles feels he has more questions than answers. It doesn't take too much google searching to find the red string of fate. Deaton hadn't actually _said_ anything to confirm this is what he'd been talking about, but, like Lydia, Stiles doesn't believe in coincidences. Stiles doesn't know how to feel about what this implies. In mythology, the red string of fate was tied between two people who are fated, destined, and, as far as he can tell, lovers.

He's always wanted Lydia, but not if she doesn't want him back, and he can't imagine Lydia will like the idea of fate and the whole lack of choice that comes with something like that. He's certain that's what Deaton thinks is between them, but he won't mention it. Lydia is smart, smarter than he is. She can figure it out herself (and he assumes she will) and if she wants to talk about it, she can bring it up. It's never a good idea to push Lydia.

 

“ _ **I was burning up a fever, I didn't care much how long I lived,”**_

He's been dreaming Lydia into his bed since he was fourteen, but these days, it's different. Recently, the dreams don't have a happy ending for him (which dreams with Lydia generally _do)._ Instead, they start with him waking up next to her, move on to her begging him to come back to bed as he creeps towards the open door, and end with him screaming himself awake. Except these days, sometimes he can't tell if he's awake or dreaming.

Over the next few weeks, things progress from bad to unbearable. He can't sleep. He doesn't eat. Reality and dreams blend together and, one day, he finds himself locked inside his own head, while something dark and angry and so, _so_ hungry takes over his body.

The worst part is that he watches it all happen, while he stays trapped in a hazy place that makes it nearly impossible for him to focus. He gets moments, flashes where he finds himself back in control of his own body, but these moments become less and less frequent, and he can feel himself slipping away. He finds, not to his surprise, an anchor in Lydia. He holds onto the world and reality by picturing her face, her voice, the feeling of her lips against his. But his undeniable tie to Lydia has consequences. Because the nogitsune, this hungry, hungry darkness, can't help but absorb the most intense pieces of him, and it can't help but want her too.

He doesn't realize how deep inside himself he's fallen until Scott and Lydia pull him out. Looking back on it, he's not surprised it was them who did it. Plus his father, they are the most important people in the world to him. They need him. So he has to come back. But even though he's now physically separate from the nogitsune, it's connected to him. He can feel it feeding off of him. And he's taken Lydia. Stiles has been sharing his head with the creature for weeks and the only way he can avoid another panic attack is to force himself not to remember all the things it had wanted from her. And it's his fault.

“We'll find her,” Scott assures him, but Stiles is more worried about what's going to happen to her before they do. He doesn't think the nogitsune would kill her, not because it isn't evil enough, but because it had developed a bit of an obsession of it's own. He keeps his mouth shut about it, though. It won't do anyone any good to have those thoughts in their head. He wishes he could get them out of his.

By the time they _do_ find her, he's so weak he's barely conscious. Even so, relief floods every pore of his body because the look on her face says she's _way_ more scared for him and her friends, than hurt. He doesn't know how he'll bear it if the demon with his face hurt her. But once they've found her, everything that was holding him up, pushing him forward, leaves his bones and his head is spinning and his muscles are weak, and he can't even keep himself upright.

He doesn't remember falling to the ground. He doesn't remember Lydia clinging to him. He doesn't even remember her scream. All he knows is that he wakes up to a world where Allison is no longer breathing, his best friend has lost his first love, and Lydia is left mourning her best friend and haunted by the demon that had worn his face. No matter how many times everyone around him denies it, it all feels like his fault. He can't imagine a time where it won't.

 

“ _ **But I swear I thought I dreamed her. She never asked me once about the wrong I did.”**_

He thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. That is, until she shows up on his doorstep with her lips pressed into a determined line and her arms crossed across her chest. She doesn't bother with greetings or small talk. She hasn't even stepped across his doorstep, even though he's standing back from the door to let her in, when she says,  
“I know you're not okay.” His first thought is to protest, to tell her he's _fine_ , and no he wasn't just sitting in his room crying and _no_ , his eyes and nose aren't red right now. His second instinct is to ask her how she could _possibly_ know that, because everyone else seems to be buying it fine, maybe because they really want to. But then he _knows_.

“I know you're not okay, either,” he says. It's clearly not what she's expecting, because her face goes quickly from surprised to suppressed amusement to something that he thinks might actually be affection.

“Do you wanna come in and not be okay together?” He guesses he doesn't know how to deal with anything without humor. Lydia gives him a tiny smile and steps inside. They spend the rest of the day watching bad movies and pretending like everything in the world doesn't feel so incredibly heavy.

Lydia has never once brought up the tether, what Deaton had said, or its implications, so he isn't expecting it when she turns to him suddenly.

“Can you feel what I'm feeling?”

“What?” He's thrown off by the question. He's not sure what she means by something as vague and random as that.

“Because I think I can feel what you're feeling. It's like there's this spot in my chest and it doesn't matter what's going on with me, there's this shadow of something else there and it's _you_. And I think it must be the tether, so I thought maybe you feel the same thing and...”

Is Lydia Martin _blushing_? Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen her so flustered and lost for words. But then, it's a pretty weird and intimate thing to say to someone.

“I've kind of been trying to avoid thinking about _anything_ that has to do with feeling,” Stiles admits slowly.

“Oh.”

But now that she's said it.... She'd been standing on his doorstep accusing him of not being okay and he'd known she'd felt the exact same way. He'd _known_. It wasn't because of what his head was saying, that she's dealing with the death of her best friend, with figuring out exactly who and what she is, with things that have happened to her. It was because he'd felt it. He takes a deep breath and stops trying to shut out all feelings.

It's painful, to let in everything he's been avoiding. It's overwhelming, all guilt and sadness and fear and anger. But then, right there, there's something open and worried and embarrassed and affectionate that's burning behind his heart. There's something that feels like her.

“I can feel it.”

Lydia's eyes are wide. “You can?”

“Yeah, I can.”

She lets out a slow breath. “Oh.” She's quiet for a moment. “Is it weird that it's kind of a relief? To have someone that when they say, “I know how you're feeling,” they really _do_? They actually know.”

Stiles doesn't even think about it. “No. It's not weird.” It wasn't his first thought, but she's so incredibly right. There can be nothing like knowing someone really, completely understands how you feel. It also scares him. He doesn't want her to have to feel all the hurt inside him.

Lydia turns back to the movie and drops her head onto his shoulder. She doesn't say that she knows he thinks that Allison's death is his fault. Or that she knows he felt that Jackson's personality had allowed him to be the kanima and maybe the nogitsune had inhabited Stiles because he, in some way, wasn't a good enough person to keep it out. He doesn't tell her that he knows she thinks she should have saved her best friend. They've both been told not to blame themselves a thousand times. They both know that words won't change how they feel about it. But now they know something else. There is someone who will always understand.

 

“ _ **My babe would never fret none, about what my hands and my body done.”**_

He doesn't initially intend to shut himself off from her. He doesn't even realize he's doing it at first or that it was possible, but it's for the best, really. People are dying and Lydia's on a list with a huge price attached to her head and she can't afford to feel all the fear he has for her. She doesn't need to deal with the fact that he can't sleep because almost everyone he loves is being hunted. She already has it worse than him. Keeping her at an emotional distance is for the best.

He stays busy. That's the only way he knows how to deal with all this. He helps Scott with anything he can. He researches late into the night. He tries to train Malia, who has been adopted by the pack and has serious control issues. He helps her look into her past, though he convinces Scott it's a bad idea to tell her about Peter. Nothing with Peter can be a good idea.

He doesn't even realize Malia likes him for ages. In the end, Scott tells him, looking exasperated and a little entertained. And once he knows, he really isn't sure how he feels about it. She's beautiful, but she's also incredibly frustrating and rude and almost childlike in a way that freaks him out a little (she _has_ been living in the woods as a coyote since she was a child). He's pretty sure Malia isn't actually ready to be in a relationship with anyone. He also has his suspicions that her feelings towards him are fueled more by his mentoring relationship and the stability (it's incredible anyone thinks _he's_ stable) he provides, than actual feelings. But it does feel nice to be wanted.

He doesn't mean to lose touch with Lydia completely. It's not intentional. But holding someone at arms length does tend to have consequences. He doesn't mean to _hurt_ her. He doesn't mean to push her so far away she stops seeing him as an option for support. He just hadn't wanted her to deal with all the turmoil inside him. He should have realized that as fucked up as he is, she's not far behind.

 

“ _ **If the Lord don't forgive me, I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me.”**_

The day he comes across her crying in the library is the day he realizes he's fucked up one more thing. He'd slammed a wall down between their connection and he isn't ready for the sight of Lydia, strong, unstoppable, beautiful Lydia, with tears streaking down her cheeks. He hasn't seen her cry since Allison's funeral.

“Lyds?” She doesn't try to hide the fact that she's crying, which is not something he's used to.

“Hey.”

He sits down next to her, feeling tentative and thrown off and starting to think about how he should _know_ that she's feeling this way, but he's been blocking them from each other and he doesn't.

“What's wrong?”

Lydia wipes tears away from her cheeks. “It's just all... overwhelming.”

He doesn't need another thing to feel guilty over, but he can't help it. It's a lot easier to keep a distance from Lydia when he doesn't actually have to see her hurting. But he knows, with something deep and painful inside him, that she's been hurting all this time and he's made a mistake because he should have _been_ there. The barrier he's built up to protect them both is crumbling.

“Lyds,” it's an apology, even if it's all wrapped up in her name, brimming with guilt.

She lets out a watery laugh, her hand going to press to her chest and he knows she's feeling what he is, that connection that's rushing back in, powerful and intense.

“I know,” she says softly, hand still over her heart. “And not because of this, Stiles. I always knew what you were doing.”

Somehow, the fact that she doesn't blame him makes him feel worse. She should be mad at him, upset that he'd distanced himself at the worst possible time. But she understands, and how did he get so lucky to be close to someone like her?

“I'm sorry,” he tells her, but he knows that she can feel this reverberating through her already. Lydia takes his hand, sliding her fingers between his and doesn't say anything. He doesn't need her to. Maybe fixing things between them shouldn't be this simple, and maybe it'll all come back around and they'll have to deal with it later, but he isn't going to complain.

“I need to go to Eichen House,” she says very softly.

His heart drops somewhere into his stomach and she squeezes his hand gently. “Why?”

“I need to talk to Meredith. I need to do _something_.”

“Okay.” And he knows that she knows what he means is, _I'll go with you_ , even though it's the last place he wants to set foot in.

The last thing on earth that Lydia needed was to feel like there was another death on her hands. Stiles knows, not just because he can feel it twinging in his chest, but because he feels the exact same way about himself. Meredith isn't her fault. He believes this with every fiber of his being, but he knows, from very personal experience, that it won't matter what anyone else says or thinks about it. She'll feel however she feels about it.

So, instead, he stays with her through the night, spending his first night in a bed with Lydia under very different circumstances than he'd dreamed his whole life. And while the situation is far from ideal, he wouldn't want to be anywhere else, not if being there can in any way help her. He just hopes it can.

 

“ _ **I was kissing on my baby, and she put her love down soft and sweet.”**_

He really doesn't know how it happens. For someone who's been dreaming and planning and then dreaming some more, it catches him totally off guard. Because one minute, they're sitting on his bed like they _always_ are, and fighting about some stupid detail, or maybe it was about his plan (he can't really remember at the moment), and the next she's leaned over and kissed him. For a second, he can't even process this information. Lydia is kissing him. Lydia is kissing him and no one's having a panic attack and he thinks she might be kissing him because she _wants_ to and he's kissing her back and a little bit terrified that she's going to come to her senses and stop. She doesn't stop.

She doesn't stop, that is, until Derek bursts into the room. She pulls back, facing Derek (whose mouth is hanging open in pure amazement and he _never_ looks amazed) with a defiant expression all over her face. She crosses her arms across her chest and Stiles just tries to process the fact that a moment ago he'd been kissing Lydia and now he's not.

“What do you want, Derek?” Lydia asks, annoyance very, _very_ clear in her tone.

“Sorry, didn't mean to, uh, interrupt,” Derek says slowly, the slightest red in his cheeks. Is Derek _blushing_? Stiles becomes vaguely aware that maybe _he_ should be blushing, but he just feels a little dazed and way too happy.

“Well, you _did_ ,” Lydia says pointedly, “so what do you want?”

“I-” Derek rubs at the back of his neck, trying to compose himself. “We're all ready to go, you know, to Mexico, where Scott and Kira appear to have been taken hostage. Or did you two forget about all that?” He gets back to sarcastic and snippy by the end, so clearly he's gotten over the shock of walking in on them.

“No, we didn't forget, thanks,” Lydia snaps back, standing up and smoothing her skirt. She walks past Derek to the door. “So? Are we going?”

Stiles stares at her, standing there, and wonders if she can feel all the happiness he's feeling, swelling in his chest and eating him alive. He searches for the part of her in his chest that he usually feels, but he can't find it, he's too overwhelmed with the memory of her lips, of her kissing him just because she wanted to. He catches her eyes and she gives him the smallest smile, just a moment, just something to acknowledge what he's thinking, and then he can't help the huge grin that's splitting his face. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous.

Derek glances between the two, rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Oh, for fuck's _sake_.” And storms past Lydia out the door.

 

“ _ **In the low lamp light I was free. Heaven and Hell were words to me.”**_

Of course nothing goes right. Nothing ever goes right. He just didn't expect it to go _so_ wrong. He's not even that surprised when Peter turns on them, but he's not prepared either, so it turns out mistrusting Peter and putting that mistrust into action are two very different things. It's the difference between these that's going to get someone killed.

Scott is facing Peter without an ounce of fear in his eyes and Stiles believes in his friend, but that's not going to matter if they all get slaughtered by Berserkers in the meantime. Kira is in decent fighting commission, and Liam is _trying,_ but he's still so young and scared. Malia is putting up a good fight, but Derek is somewhere outside with Braeden, possibly bleeding to death (he's not sure how the fuck _that's_ possible) and Kate's skulking around somewhere and things really aren't looking good.

He wishes Argent was here, he wishes Isaac was here (and he never even really liked Isaac that much), fuck, he'd take Jackson's help at the moment if it meant everyone getting out of this alive. He doesn't know why he's got this terrible feeling that someone's not going to make it.

Only it's not _his_ feeling. The realization is like cold settling into his bones. It's not his feeling. It's Lydia's. And that means it's not just a feeling. He's too busy staring at Lydia, pressed back against a wall, eyes wide, to see Scott take out Peter. He's too busy watching, with his heart in his throat, the Berserker that's broken free of Malia and is heading right for Lydia.

“Scott!” he yells, because, really, Scott's her only hope. Because Scott's his best friend and he can save her. It's in that moment that he realizes there's something behind him. He doesn't turn around, as Scott whirls to the sound of Stiles' yell, eyes skimming over the situation. It doesn't matter what's behind him. It doesn't matter because someone's going to die and it can't be Lydia.

There's a moment, a split second of time, which would be _way_ too fast to communicate anything if both he and Scott were human, but Scott isn't, so when Stiles meets his best friend's eyes, he knows that Scott has time to absorb everything that's written across his face. And he knows that Scott's read that if he lets Lydia die in favor of saving Stiles, even if he wants to, Stiles will never be able to forgive him.

Stiles isn't fast enough to see Scott's decision, but a split second later there's something sharp and hard separating his flesh. There's a breath where everything seems surreal and he watches his blood, bright and spilling _so_ fast, hit the ground in a splatter at his feet. He's, somehow, both hyper aware and completely numb. Across the room, he can see Lydia in Scott's arms and all he can think is, _thank you, thank you, thank you._ And as the relief hits him, so does the pain, his body crumpling to the ground. Lydia begins to scream.

 

“ _ **When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth.”**_

It's dark and very cold and Stiles is very, very aware that he doesn't need to breathe, that he's not even capable of doing so, and it terrifies him because he's been here before. Please, please, please let me be alone, he thinks, because the last time he'd been in this dark place, out of his body, he'd been sharing it with a vicious creature. If he's alone, he's dead, he knows that, but he'd much, much rather be dead than back where he'd been before.

He notices the slightest outline of light. A door. He makes his way to it, knowing, somehow, that it's the way out, beyond. Going through there... Well, there's no coming back. But that's okay. He hates this place. He stops, abruptly, just short of the door, feeling anchored for a reason he doesn't understand. He tries to move forward, fails.

He's suddenly overwhelmed with huge amounts of pain and grief. If he had a body, he'd sink to the floor, but he has no body. He's a thought, a consciousness, nothing more. He doesn't understand where it's coming from. It's not _his_. He doesn't have anything, anymore, just this trail of thoughts in a dark place and the outline of something that has to be better. But then he understands. Lydia.

He's feeling what she's feeling and he needs it to stop, it needs to stop right this instant. He can't handle it when he can't reach her. He can't bear the idea that she's in this pain. He wants to fix it. He would do anything to fix it. Please, he thinks, _please._

 

“ _ **No grave could hold my body down. I'll crawl home to her.”**_

He can't breathe. He can't breathe and it doesn't make any sense because he doesn't need to, he doesn't have a body. But he feels like he's suffocating. Suddenly, his airways clear, and he's gasping, sucking in air and blinking his eyes open. Eyes? He's back in his body, shivering and shuddering with breath. He doesn't understand. He was dead. He had died. He _knew_ he had died. But here he is, squinting against bright lights and feeling the cold that's sunk into his body. His heart is beating, thundering against his chest and he's _alive_.

It's then that he realizes where he is, lying naked on a metal table in the morgue. He glances down to see blood still smeared across his skin. Even as he looks, more is leaking out of a jagged open wound in his gut. He feels a wave of nausea and drops his head back to the table. He definitely shouldn't be alive. His body feels heavy and numb and he's kind of glad, because the state of his body had looked exceptionally painful. But he needs to get control _soon_ because he definitely needs to get some help or he's going to bleed out _again._

The sound of voices drifts to his ears, raised and frantic and coming closer. He strains to hear.

“Sweetheart, you don't want those images. You don't want to remember him like that.” He knows that voice, kind and motherly and achingly familiar.

“You don't understand. I _have_ to-” _Her_ voice.

“-Lydia, it's probably not a good idea...” And that's Scott.

Lydia. He uses all the strength that he can muster, takes a deep breath, and shoves himself into a sitting position. His breath is coming faster, his body protesting against the physical exertion. Well, it's going to have to fucking _deal_ with it because she's so close and he's not about to let himself die before he sees her.

The door to the morgue bursts open, showing Lydia in the lead, Scott and Melissa trailing her. All three stop in their tracks, eyes locked to where Stiles is sitting on the table, naked, blood oozing out of his body, and he wonders briefly if he should be embarrassed, but fucking hell, he's just come back from the dead, so he decides to give himself a break.

“ _Stiles_.” Lydia is the first to react, launching herself back in to motion, feet carrying her across the room. Like her movement has broken some sort of spell, Scott follows, and Melissa immediately reaches for the phone on the wall to page for help. But Stiles isn't paying any attention to that because Lydia's stopped just in front of him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Hey,” he says lamely, it coming out all scratchy from his throat and he probably should have tried to say something profound and beautiful as his first words, but since when has his life ever gone smoothly?

Lydia lets out a choked little laugh, her hands hovering like she wants to touch him, but is afraid to do so. “I knew,” she says through her tears. One of her hands presses to that place on her chest, that place where they're tied together. “I just _knew_.”

And she doesn't have to say any more, because he knows too.

 

“ _ **When”**_

He doesn't know if they're ever going to get an explanation with any sort of certainty. Deaton had simply shook his head and, for the first time since Stiles has met him, looked completely baffled. Of course, he'd thrown around a few theories about tethers and the word “soulmate” had come up a few times, but it's all speculation.

He doesn't really care, which frustrates Lydia to no end. It doesn't matter. He has an explanation all his own. He'd come back because she needed him. He'd come back because he couldn't leave without her. It just is.

When he tells her this, her forehead gets all crinkled with thought and she bites her lip and he can almost see her trying to work it all out. He rolls his eyes, and tugs on her hand until she curls up against his side and presses her face into the crook of his neck. She mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _I love you_ ,” but he can't say he really heard and he doesn't ask. He doesn't have to. He knows.

He has his own suspicions, ones that he's pretty sure are correct, that with him and Lydia, it was all only a matter of when.

 


End file.
